Cross Sections of History
by lightness and weight
Summary: Collection of drabbles...various points at which Harry Potter and BtVS timelines could possibly intersect, with no changes in canon...not counting the BtVS comics.
1. Like Star Music: New Year's Eve 1899

**Disclaimer**: Neither the universe created by JK Rowling nor the Buffy/Angel universe created by Joss Whedon belong to me. Also, there are a handful of direct quotes in this story taken out of context and corrupted to suit my own purposes, as are the characters.

**Summary**: New Year's Eve 1899—Drusilla finds Albus Dumbledore in a pub.

**Author's Note**: I apologize for how out of place/time, some of the expressions I use in the dialogue probably are. I was born more than a century after Dumbledore, and on a different continent (and I'm too lazy to research), so I just wrote whatever idioms/slang I felt like using.

* * *

"You're _the_ Albus Dumbledore? The kid who's _skills with a wand_ my aunt Marshybum hasn't shut her gob about since 1897? Go on then—tell us something mind-numbingly intelligent to copy down for future generations."

Albus took a moment to give the request the serious consideration it was due.

"Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!" he proclaimed, after the moment had passed.

"Ooh! Hear that, Ed? A right genius, this one. You've got to be a genius to be that level of insane. Merlin, look at him, grinning like he's just solved world hunger."

"Oh, give the lad a break, would ya? He's obviously three sheets to the wind—"

"Exactly my point! Ed, talented youngster or not, he's got dodgy kit. He could go on some drunken murdering rampage, s'all I'm saying—"

"Silence!" A slender, dark haired young woman shouted in an authoritative voice, hands on hips. Everyone in the room obeyed—perhaps on account of her imperious bearing—and waited expectantly.

"The Knight of Pentacles mourns the loss of his page. His banquet's been spoilt, _poisoned_," she announced, with a distressed moan. And with that, everyone turned back to their own business, except one man…

"Well, that's just wonderful, innit? Another for the loonies! Must be related; madness runs in his family, you know. I heard…"

Albus tuned the rude man out, and stared into his seventh shot of firewhiskey. He harbored no desire to listen to what complete strangers were saying about his family these days; he had come here to forget, after all. Was that too much to ask, to be allowed the peace of oblivion for _just one night?_

"Such pretty fire," the strange brunette woman breathed into his ear, bringing him out of his thoughts once again. She was standing very close—too close, not that he was in any state to care at the moment—and staring at him as if the mere sight of his face dazzled her.

It occurred to him that the woman was rather dazzling herself; there was something mesmerizing—penetrating—about her eyes. Not that he fancied female eyes; or any other part of the female anatomy, for that matter, even if it could be described as 'penetrating'…

_...if I did, Ariana might still be alive..._

"I saw you coming, my lovely. The moon showed me. It told me to come into the twentieth century…will you come with me?"

Albus smiled at her and allowed himself to be guided to a more secluded table, vaguely registering a mutter of "damn seers" as they passed the booths. He liked the way she talked.

The cadence felt…familiar; maybe it was because she reminded him so much of Ariana, his beautiful, fragile baby sister…albeit with dark hair like his mother's and an age that, by her appearance, was closer to his own…but he felt comfortable with her—at home—in a way he had not felt since before his mother's death.

Once the two of them were safely ensconced in a corner, the woman leaned close to him again, and murmured, "Don't mind them—they've no eye for embers. But I see you, dear heart; the flames flicker around you, sparks frolicking like fairies."

"Do they?" He felt nothing but idle curiosity and slight giddiness at the odd observation; the image she presented cheered him.

"Oh yes, my flame. 'Tis a marvel they've yet to consume you. But the tears will come."

The giddiness died. As did any curiosity. He did not want to hear this.

"Tears have already come."

"Not these—these will come with a song. You deserve them, you know."

Oh, yes, he knew, although he wished he didn't. He deserved tears, he deserved his brother's hatred and the world's suspicion—_What have I done?_ His mind shouted and then observed with irony that he was too much of a coward to even face Gellert because he so feared being able to answer that question with finality…

"…run and catch, run and catch, the lamb is caught in the blackberry patch…"

The voice was soft, but the words startled him. He knew that song…

"Where did you learn that?"

He had always assumed his mother made that song up—none of his friends knew it, and he had never found a reference to it anywhere, not that he'd looked particularly hard. Why would he bother? It was just a song, and it made sense that no one had heard it; his mother was muggleborn, after all…

"Mummy sang it to us…it was Daddy's favorite."

"So did mine…I mean, my mother…"

He looked at her, again noticing how much she resembled both his mother and his sister. Yes, his mother had been a muggleborn, and all her relatives in Romania had died over a year ago, but she had distant relatives in England too; she had lost touch with them years ago, when he was a small child, but surely some of them were still alive. Could it be possible…?

"Would you tell me about your family?"

She did not hesitate.

"They used to eat cake, and eggs, and honey, until Daddy came and ripped their throats out."

"Oh."

The grisly turn in the conversation likely would have given an average eighteen year old pause, but Albus, being exceptionally above average and more than slightly drunk, was undeterred.

"Your father was a violent man, too? Mine attacked three teenagers, once—though he refrained from doing any permanent damage…physically, at least. But I wish he **had** ripped their throats out; there was so much _screaming_…"

He had never told anyone that before, never confided anything about the day of his father's arrest, and definitely never vocalized anything so violent. He was rather surprised at how easy it was to say, and how much better he felt afterwards.

"Oh, yes, so much screaming, such succulent screaming: sweet as a serenade, my sisters' screams..."

It was then Albus knew that the woman beside him was even more like Ariana than he had already guessed—that she was both damaged and dangerous—but instead of stopping his confession, it spurred him on. He told her of the frenzy and confusion of the day that forever altered his life, acts of violence upon violence: _his mother crying, angry and afraid; his father stalking out of the house in a silent fury; his ten year old self, following in his father's wake, wondering what had happened; watching his father torture boys who, young Albus noted, were only a few years older than himself; being scared of his own father for the first time in his life and just standing there, numb, as the aurors and healers and reporters arrived; being escorted home by an auror and then seeing bloody bandages on the kitchen table…_

"…I found out later that they—that they—that she was **raped**."

He'd never spoken that word before: not in reference to his sister; not in reference to anyone. The unpleasantness of it hung in the air over their table, evoking an inner reaction similar to how he felt upon leaving Azkaban, after the yearly visit to his father.

_I am my own personal dementor_, his mind mused grimly. _Escape really is futile._

"I know," the woman cooed. "Miss Edith cried for her, as Miss Edith cries for me…she clings to the past, so that I can attend to the future. But you must encompass both."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"The stars like you. They say you sing to them. And they sing to me."

The two of them sat together for a while longer, humming in harmony, until Albus discovered he was in danger of passing out in public, and decided to head home to do so in private. "It was a pleasure to meet you," he told his companion, and found that he meant it. As he stumbled to his feet, Drusilla favored him with a smile.

"Farewell, my flame. The tears will sing to you soon enough, and your heart will rise from the ashes."

Her eyes followed him to the exit; then she sashayed back to the bar and spoke to the patron who had been badgering Albus before her arrival.

"You were right about the rampage, dearie. But it's you who will be drunk."

* * *

When the aurors came to question Albus the next day about a deranged vampire massacring an entire pub (explaining that he had been seen exiting the pub mere minutes before the atrocity occurred), he could only weakly insist that he barely remembered anything of the previous night, but he had woken up with the taste of firewhiskey in his mouth, humming a muggle lullaby he had not sung in years, and recalling a fading dream about flaming fairies...


	2. Vinegar of Roses: June 1990

**Disclaimer**: I do not own either Remus or the Buffy characters.

**Summary: **Remus Lupin meets a young Beth Maclay while working at one of his oddest jobs: historical reenactment in Colonial Williamsburg.

* * *

"_Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination." ~ William Shakespeare_

"_50th—Be not hasty to believe Reports to the Disparagement of any." ~110 Rules of Civility & Decent Behavior in Company and Conversation, transcribed by George Washington_

"_Lupin's a wonderful teacher and a very nice man, but he has a failing and his failing is that he does like to be liked and that's where he slips up…" ~JK Rowling_

* * *

**June 1990**

On the corner of Duke of Gloucester street in Williamsburg, VA, there stands a two-story Georgian-style building with a drab exterior. Hanging directly over the front door, a large green sign with a red circle in the center, depicting a yellow mortar and pestle with blue trim, reads: _The Pasteur & Galt Apothecary Shop_.

Inside, on this particular day, a tired looking man was sitting on a wooden stool next to the counter, cutting and rolling cotton bandages. To any of the patrons who entered the shop, the man made it a habit to introduce himself as Dr. Galt, the town apothecary—though the man himself, along with all the other employees in the town, knew him to in fact be a Mr. Remus J. Lupin.

As the town apothecary, his 'duties' were as follows: provide medical treatment, train apprentices, prescribe medicine, perform surgery, and serve as a man-midwife…but in truth, all he really did was talk to tourists and reorganize the cupboards.

He glanced around at 'his' certificates—which were on display around the room—in the subjects of medical theory, midwifery, and surgery—from Saint Thomas's Hospital in London. When he was far enough in character, Remus actually took a bit of pride in them, which he never failed to feel silly about afterward.

This was certainly not what he imaged doing with his life when McGonagall asked him what his dream career was in fifth year…but then again, who, at the age of thirty, ended up doing what they imaged when they were fifteen? Never mind that due to his dark creature status and lack of an official muggle record, his job opportunities were severely limited both in the magical and muggle worlds.

Still, as it was, this was certainly better than his last job, which he endeavored at all times not to recall. In fact, Remus found he rather enjoyed working here; the job was, peripherally, related to teaching and healing—two fields that he had considered while in school (being surrounded by his optimistic, supportive, and _naive _friends)—and there was plenty of mischief to be had, pretending to be a trumped up potions master from the 18th century to a bunch of American muggles…

He groaned to himself. _Oh, who am I kidding?_ If James and Peter could see him now, he imagined they would have a chuckle at his expense: _Moony, those stockings are **fantastic**…and a wig…never thought **you** would need one of those…_

That was the problem with all your friends dying at tragically young ages: they remained teenagers in your head forever. Just as his thoughts began to take a more unpleasant turn, the door opened, interrupting his memories and admitting a little girl with ginger hair.

"Good morning, Miss," he delivered his standard greeting, blithely. "How may I assist you this fine summer's day?"

The girl, who was looking around the shop with wide blue eyes, did not respond immediately. Remus looked around with her, trying to imagine what she was seeing as she visually absorbed the green-blue drawers labeled with Latin plant names, the part of an antler lying on the table in front him next to the mortar and pestle, the various antique instruments for compounding and dispensing drugs around the room, and the lovely set of blue and white British delft jars lining the wall behind him (Remus was quite fond of those, himself).

"What sort of shop is this? What are all these things for?" she asked him, at length.

"Well," Remus began his explanation.

"This is an apothecary—similar to what you would call a pharmacy, or drug store. We dispense: chalk for heartburn; calamine for skin irritations; cinchona bark for fevers (and malaria and heart trouble, as well); for headaches, there's vinegar of roses, but most colonists make that—and other remedies with common ingredients—in their own homes. We also sell cooking spices, candles, salad oil, anchovies, tobacco, and toothbrushes," he finished, waving a bundle of twigs with a grin.

"Oh," the girl responded, simply. "Well, I don't need any of that."

"You are fortunate not to, Miss..."

"I'm Beth. Bethany Maclay."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Maclay. My name is Dr. Galt. Might I inquire as to where your parents are?"

"In jail," she answered, with the frankness typical of children her age. "Well, daddy's in jail; my mom died having me. Uncle Nathan says it was a blessing disguised as a tragedy, since she was nineteen and all. I live with him and my Aunt Deirdre. They're still at the tavern where we ate lunch."

"Well," Remus offered, thinking she might like something a little more normal after her meal from the 1700s. "We have a dish of complimentary chocolate mints, if you would like some."

"No, thank you. I'm allergic."

Beth was looking around again. "This looks a lot like the room where Aunt Deirdre keeps her mumbo jumbo junk," she murmured, with a hint of—if Remus interpreted her tone correctly—suspicion.

"Her mumbo jumbo junk?" he asked nevertheless, somewhat bemused.

"Rocks and candles and plants with weird names which smell funny—like this stuff. Sometimes she mixes it together and…"

"Oh, no," Beth gasped suddenly, backing a few steps away with a stricken expression and pointing at him accusingly. "You're a demon!"

For one horrifying moment, Remus worried that she _knew_, and dread flashed across his face. But then he realized that was ridiculous—it was the new moon.

He resembled an uninfected human more closely now than he ever did, and that was _pretty darn close_, so there was no way she could be referring to his lycanthropy…which left the question of what she could be referring to…

"I beg your pardon?" He inquired, wanting clarification, but trying not to upset her further.

"All this time, you've been talking to me, pretending to be a gentleman…!"

_Oh, no. This is getting out of hand fast._

"Shh. Calm down. There's been a misunderstand—"

"DEMON—a demon! Donny! DONNY! UNCLE NATHAN!"

_Merlin. Why do these things always happen to me? It's like I'm a walking prejudice magnet._

A middle-aged, up-tight looking man of medium build, rushed in, looking askance at Beth. He was quickly followed by a young teenage boy, a blonde girl around the age of ten, and the wigmaker and the silversmith who both worked across the street.

"He's a demon!" Beth continued to screech. "I can't believe I didn't see it right away—he even tried to give me candy!"

"A _pedophile_," the uptight-looking man, who Remus assumed was 'Uncle Nathan', spat. "I ought to press charges!"

"I—wha—now wait just a minute!" _This situation was **definitely** out of hand now._

"Mr. Lupin, is this true?" _No, no, no._ That was his boss's voice! _I **liked** this job. I **did**._

"Lupin! He told me his name was Galt! And that he was a Dr.!"

Remus would have rolled his eyes at that if he had not been in such a state of panic. At least he knew he could not get in trouble for telling a lie that _was in his job description_…It was ludicrous! But as he observed the scene going on around him, helpless to stop it from escalating, he realized that was not the case...

Needless to say, Remus did not remain employed at that establishment for much longer.


	3. The Witching Hour: July 2001

**Disclaimer**: BtVS belongs to Joss Whedon and Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling.

**Summary**: While studying abroad in Scotland, Beth Maclay meets a recent Hogwarts graduate.

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**1.**

He was standing on the shore of the North Sea, shrieking, when Beth first saw him, and _knew_.

Here was the man she was going to marry.

There was no doubt. Absolutely none.

Demon or not, the power of premonition ran in her family.

So despite the odd, jarring screeches the stranger was emitting, Beth felt drawn to him.

It was not so much love at first sight, as it was knowledge at first sight.

The sun had set over the beach an hour before, and it was now nearing midnight.

Unnoticed in the darkness, she began walking towards him.

* * *

**2.**

It was not a pleasant feeling, knowing who you were going to marry before you even met them...especially when you met them at midnight, screaming.

But no one could ignore the Sight, so Beth decided to make her presence known.

"What are you doing?"

"Oh!" He jumped and spun to face her. "I, uh, Hullo," he stuttered sheepishly.

In the distance, Beth heard a splash.

"You were screaming," she accused him.

"Indeed I was," he agreed evasively, with a bit of a cheeky grin.

"Why?" She did not want to marry a madman.

He cleared his throat. "Well, um..."

* * *

**3.**

Apparently, her future husband was a marine zoologist and was working in the area as a government intern; he had been making high-pitched noises to try to imitate the call of a particular species of aquatic creature, which, once he got started, he jabbered on and on about.

He was a bit eccentric, Beth concluded, but not unreasonably so...he was a scientist, after all.

Following the explanation of his peculiar behavior, Beth had said she would like to meet him again, if possible, here, during the day.

With an easy smile, he had agreed to be there the next afternoon.

* * *

**4.**

In the light of day, she could see that he was gangly, with floopy ash brown hair, walnut-colored eyes, and dimpled cheeks; he was in his late teens, like she was, and he was nervous, but still, he smiled at her as she approached.

"I'm Dennis, by the way," he introduced himself, sticking out his hand for her to shake, which she did. "Dennis Creevey."

"Bethany Maclay," she responded. "But I go by Beth."

In the silence that ensued, they both looked out over the water.

"So, tell me more about this creature you're studying..." she began awkwardly, desperate for a topic.

* * *

**5.**

Somehow the subject of conversation turned to family members and their various occupations.

Beth learned Dennis's father was a milkman, and his mother, a piano teacher.

She told him that her mother had been a waitress, and her father a mechanic, although she had basically been raised by her uncle, who was a butcher.

"And what about you?" He had asked her then. "If you could have any job in the world, what would it be?"

"An illustrator of children's books," Beth surprised herself, having blurted out the first thing that popped into her mind.

"But I don't know..."


End file.
